The importance of this mysterious mission can only be seen by following in the footsteps of the departing clerk. That he is to act the part of a sleuth-hound is evident at once from his movements.
On reaching the dark landing of the narrow staircase, his first act was to look carefully about him. Being assured that he was alone, he struck a match, and by its flickering light read carefully the note given him in the office. This seemed a superfluous performance, with the sun shining outside; but the detective knows his own business best. The next act of Mr. Mole was to pull off his trilby hat and tuck it behind the gas-meter, its place being supplied by a cloth cap drawn from a back trouser pocket. With the peak of this cap pulled well down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up, Mole descended the staircase on tiptoe and reached the door. He looked up and down the court without turning his head, a feat only possible by turning the eyes till scarcely any part was visible but the whites. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he started off in the direction of St. Paul's, keeping to the sides with the same pertinacity that a mariner hugs the shore.
He avoided St. Paul's Churchyard, but kept to the narrow thoroughfare until he reached Paternoster Row, where he threaded his way through numerous courts and emerged on Ludgate Hill, near the Old Bailey. Giving a familiar nod to the old building, he darted across the road, and made his way along Water Lane to Upper Thames Street. Here a quick change was effected, which consisted in pulling the cap-peak rakishly over one eye, undoing the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, and covering his collar with a shabby muffler. Then, producing a clay pipe, he slouched along for some distance, taking note of the buildings with apparent carelessness.
He halted before a gateway labelled "Iron Wharf," beneath which was the well-known name of Fairbrother. This was evidently Mr. Mole's destination, for he entered the gateway and walked towards the warehouse, where a number of vans were loading.
Inside the roomy ground floor stacks of iron gutters and rows of stoves lined the walls. Pulley wheels and new sinks lay in heaps, marked with mysterious chalk hieroglyphics. Trollies trundled over the floor, and cries of "Below!" and "Take a turn!" resounded from the upper regions, where goods were being lowered to the vans.
"What are you after, mister?"
A bearded man in a disreputable-looking coat and a sack apron accosted Mole.
"Bit of old iron," said Mole. "That the way up?" nodding to a wooden staircase.
"That's the way until we get wings. What floor do you want?"
"Don't want a floor," said Mole; "got two at home. Guess again."